Zid’s face was white with rage, stark contrast to Bebe’s red fury. The older woman’s eyes were bulging out, veins prominent on her neck and forehead, spitting out her words.

“There will be no blood test! I will contest any claims you and that filthy bastard make on my son’s heritance! You will put in at the nearest port and turn my son’s ship and all of his revenues and goods over to the authorities. If you try to contest this so help me God I will hound you to the ends of the ends of the galaxy. I will pull every string I have, you disgusting thief! You temptress! You slattern! You wormed your way into my son’s life by spreading your legs for him. That is all you ever meant to him, a cheap and easy lay. You were never part of his life, and by God nothing of yours will ever be part of our illustrious family! I should have you tried for murder, you whore. If I hear one more—“

Zid’s hand slapped the “off” button, a beautiful round of ivory. Her hand was shaking, both her hands were. It took her a few minutes to gather herself, and then she stood up straight and linked her hands behind her back. She turned to her first mate, who looked at her questioningly.

“Lady?”

“Celly. Your loyalties… were they with Omie, or with his mother?”

“They were with Omie, and with you. You are captain of this vessel. If ownership is turned over to that dragon, I’ll not remain here. I will follow your command, Captain. The rest of the crew feels the same.”

Zid nodded, ticking over options in her head. She ran her hands through her thick brown hair and then walked over to one of the command stations and keyed in a sequence of commands. The slippery liquid crystal panels coating the ship shifted, changing from beautiful pinkish cream and amber to solid black. The registry numbers faded, vanished, were replaced by a grinning horned skull, a cutlass and a pistol crossed beneath it.

And just like that, the Good Ship Honore declared war on Bebe Weiss and moved outside of the law. Just like that, the crew of the Good Ship Honore turned pirate. This was the legacy Zid gave to Omie Weiss’ daughter, the only thing she had to give: her father’s ship and her mother’s anger.

There are worse legacies.

410 words

It had been a long day. Wren closed up the office, made sure all her equipment was properly sterilized and laid out for the next day, that supplies were replenished, that she was ready to hit the ground running the next day. Satisfied, she turned out the lights and locked up, heading home. The day was nice, sunny and warm, and she took an overland route instead of the tunnels. They were fast in the grip of spring, warm blue days and green fields abounded, but she still felt a claustrophobic dread of the tunnels. It would lessen and be gone by the time summer arrived, she knew. It was not true claustrophobia, but rather a symptom of cabin-sickness. She knew this rationally. But she still wasn’t going to set foot in the tunnels if she could possibly help it, for the time being. She took the long way home, walking with her eyes closed and her face tipped up to the sunlight in places where the path was straight and nobody else was around.

She came to her dome after a pleasant ten minute walk, keyed her way into the building, and took the lift down to her floor. She had already unfastened her bracers by the time the door to her apartment irised open. She pulled them off as she walked in, locked them, dropped them on the kitchen’s island as she walked to the bathroom. She left a crumpled trail of clothing as she walked, stepping naked into the bathroom. She sealed the door, tucked the toilet and sink into their compartments in the wall, and pulled out the shower head. The water was hot and lovely and it torrented over her, washing the day away. She shampooed her hair, lathered up a cloth and ran it over her body, and rinsed off. The entire process took slightly under ten minutes. She tucked away the shower, pulled the sink out again, and cleaned her teeth with one  towel wrapped around her body and another around her hair.

She padded barefoot (another luxury, like the sunny day and the hot water) to her bedroom and tumbled onto the bed. She keyed the windowscreen to show an image of the front lawn and the mirkins tumbling amid the tall dark grass, and linked her hands behind her head, just stretching out and relaxing. The towel around her head was damp and rough against the skin of her hands and forearms,  prickling into the soft flesh everywhere but the black bands and barcodes that circled her wrists, announcing her qualifications. She sat up, her towel falling off of her head and her hair springing out like so much reddish brown dandelion fluff, and rubbed her wrists with each hand. She’d woolgathered enough. It was time to dress and look over the latest published literature on quarantine procedures.

477 words